closing in 1/1
title: closing in
rating: pg13
word count: 4010
notes: for this prompt on suitsmeme . look! i am capable of something that isn't a nc17 rating! also, I think I managed to crack-ify this (at least, everything after part 2) a bit. welp, I didn't mean for that happen. *g* OP, I do apologize for the spastic writing /o\ I promise I am usually much better about sticking to one style!
Somewhere, there is a city, and in the city, there is a shop. The shop is a small shop, suited to fit the owner--a young and ambitious boy who sees nothing but potential in the space.
Soon, the spaces fill with neatly carved shelves that are then filled with all the books the boy can find. They are small books, big books, history books, and textbooks. They are children’s stories and fantasy novels and biographies. They are first editions and reprints, self-helps and test preps. He fills the shelves until there are no more shelves to fill, and so he goes to fill the space upstairs.
He fills the second floor with books on travelling, on writing, on reading, on being. He keeps Nietzsche and Kerouac and Saint-Exupery. He finds books on animals, on bacteria, on game theory and Schrodinger’s cat. He buys old books on typography, photography, and lithography. He buys whatever he can with the money he has--buys new books, used books, old books, and lost books.
He brings out his own books, books that libraries have withdrawn, books that have had lives of their own. He pours his love into his books, loves them just as they are, be they leather-bound or paperback, dog-eared or newly printed.
He finds a collection of Bibles on the street one day, and he clears out the basement for them. He brings back a stack of encyclopedias the next day, then a series of Oxford dictionaries the day after. He touches the weathered spines with a reverence and vows to find a home for them, however long it may take.
He puts out ads in the paper (GRAND OPENING. 22-07-11). He makes flyers and business cards and banners. He asks his cousin to install a signpost, and soon, White Blank Page is ready for business.
Mike takes a deep breath as he locks the door and steps back to admire his new shop. This, he decides, is not a bookshop for just anyone; this is a bookshop for him and those like him, those who read with a quiet wonder, who are always surprised by what they don’t know and what they can learn. This is a place for the people, for the children, and most importantly, for those who are always looking for a new adventure.
*
The day starts off slow with only a handful of purchases before noon. It’s a good start, though, because the customers stay to chat, and Mike learns that Annie from Greene Street has two children who adore Peggy Parish, Ned by 6th & Bell owns the coffeehouse down the block, and Mercelle from 8,000 miles over has a weakness for first edition Updikes.
It makes him comfortable, to know that his patrons feel warm and relaxed in his shop, that they trust him implicitly.
“Let me know what you think of this,” he tells Sam from Lorenst, as he wraps a signed copy of A Swiftly Tilting Planet. “I’ll find something else for you.”
Sam ducks his head, mumbles a quiet, “Thanks.”
Mike waves to him as he exits and settles in for a quick lunch break, pulling out a wrapped sandwich from underneath the register. He thinks about the day so far--he hopes business will pick up, but he’s happy with the turnout. He takes a few bites of his sandwich before hopping off the stool and bending down to retrieve a leather-bound journal that he’d intended to sell, but had fallen too far in love to part with it now.
He opens it to the first page, smiling as he runs his fingers down the soft edge of the cover. He uncaps a pen with his teeth, and smoothing down the paper, writes down the names of each of his customers and what they bought. He leaves space at the end of each line and writes “Recs” at the top of the empty column.
He pauses, trying to recall exactly what books he has in stock, what he’s ordered, and what he’s planning to order. He has some Dr. Seuss sets that he thinks he’ll show the couple who bought Are You My Mother?; he has a collection of criticisms on Kant that he could show Critique of Practical Reason the next time she comes by.
He’s in the middle of trying to find something for the Ramona and Her Father purchase when a sharp knock on the counter makes him look up.
“Sorry,” he says, shutting his notebook hastily and crumpling up his sandwich wrapper. He wipes his mouth quickly on the back of his hand, ignoring the way the man’s eyebrows rise. “What can I help you with?”
The man stares at him, and Mike stares right back. He’s tall only in the sense that they aren’t the same height, and his hair is slicked carefully into place. It makes him look older than he could be and the expensive cut of the suit suggests that the style is deliberate. “You sell rare books,” the man says finally, mouth twisting into a smirk.
“I do,” Mike acquiesces.
“Hm,” says the man. He reaches for one of the books displayed on the side table and flips through it, frowning. He sets it back down and says, “I want the first edition of this.”
Mike looks over. It’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. “Sure,” he says. “I can do that. Can I get your name and phone number? I’ll call you when I have it.”
The man snorts, faintly derisive. “No, I’ll just come back for it.”
Mike expects him to leave, but he doesn’t. In fact, the man spends almost twenty minutes looking through the shelves before selecting used copies of Peter Rabbit, The Last of the Mohicans, and The Hobbit.
Mike rings him up without a word.
*
Mike spends $90 on Amazon that night. He deliberates for nearly an hour before logging into his Buyer’s account. He can sell it at 20% markup, he decides, regardless of whether the man decides to come back. Every buy is an investment, Mike figures, he can’t go wrong.
*
The man comes back. Mike, honestly, is surprised.
“Hi,” he says, for lack of anything better. “Your book hasn’t come in, yet.”
The man stands by the photography books, pulling out every cover and inspecting them closely. “I know,” he says without looking up. He shifts, and Mike can see him holding onto a plain brown package in his left hand.
For a moment, Mike panics and thinks, Shit, he’s going to bomb this place, before the man moves again, sliding Architecture in Singapore back into its place. He walks over and holds out the parcel. “I think you ordered this,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
Mike doesn’t take it. “You’re Specter,” he says instead.
“Yes,” the man says, smirking now. “Ninety, was it?”
“One-oh-eight,” Mike says, unamused.
“Wow,” Specter whistles. “I’m not going to pay you for surfing the internet, so you can take the $90 to break even, or you can take a loss.”
“Breaking even would be $102.68,” Mike replies, finally reaching out and taking the package. “That’s shipping and handling and sales tax.” Mike looks up at him with a tampered-down glare. “I take credit cards.”
Specter chuckles and reaches into his suit jacket to take out his wallet. He hands over a credit card--black, Mike refuses to be impressed--and Mike swipes it through the register vindictively.
“Would you like a bag, Specter?” he asks sweetly.
Specter laughs, taps the counter with the edge of his card and says, “Pleasure doing business with you. Please,” he adds, smirk never wavering. “Call me Harvey.”
*
Here are the things that Mike comes to find about one Harvey Specter, aged 34.
Firstly, he is a lawyer. He is a senior partner at a firm which Mike is sure is just a shorter way of saying “a good but very expensive lawyer who makes more in three hours than Mike would in a day. Maybe two days. Possibly a week.” Second, is that he has a lot of books. He has so many, in fact, that he’s put his entire collection up for sale. Amazon says that he owns not one, but two first edition Dickens, along with plenty of other well-kept classics that make Mike nearly seethe with envy. Finally (and most importantly), he’s made a game of pissing Mike off, and Mike always loses. Mike hates losing.
Mike doesn’t know why Harvey continues to come back, just that he does. Harvey has criticised everything from the typeface of his signs to the arrangement of the shop to the shade of white on the walls--Mike had no idea there even were different shades of white.
“Wow, fuck you,” Mike very nearly snaps when Harvey is using his condescending voice again, this time to comment on the feng shui of the second floor. “I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” he says instead, toneless and highly unamused.
Harvey snorts. “I don’t,” he says plainly. “But you clearly need all the luck you can get.”
Mike shrugs and pays close attention to the cuticles of his left hand. “I apologize profusely that the design of my shop has offended you so greatly,” he says. “I’ll be sure to pass on your concerns to the decorator I have on call. Maybe you could leave your business card, I’m sure I’ll need a lawyer so I can take her to court and milk her for all that she’s worth.”
He looks up, and Harvey is staring at him. He sighs. “You see, that was funny because I was using this thing called sarcasm that I thought you were familiar with--since clearly, I don’t even have a decorator to fire--and if you think I’m going to give you some kind of discount if you act all offended, you can leave.”
Harvey does leave, but not before Mike catches fighting back a grin.
“Also,” Mike calls as the door swings open. “I have a friend who has a first edition Austen--are you interested?”
The door swings shut, and Mike settles himself more comfortably on his stool, smirking to himself. He calls Greg.
“I want the Austen,” he says, when Greg answers. He pauses, and Greg waits expectantly. “As an early birthday gift. Plus, you owe me,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Ah, sorry, man,” Greg says (and he does, in a rare instance, sound sorry). “But I just sold it.”
“So unsell it,” Mike says blankly. “What the fuck, just say that there was a mistake and you don’t have anymore in stock.”
Greg snorts. “Fuck you,” he says without any heat. “I already shipped it, man. If I find another one, I’ll let you know, alright?”
“Whatever,” says Mike, frowning slightly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not that important.”
“Yeah, sorry, man,” says Greg.
“It’s fine,” Mike says and hangs up.
*
Trevor is a good friend. Mike’s known him for nearly as long as he’s known himself, but sometimes, as anyone would with their own lives, it’s hard for him to appreciate the fact. It’s always especially difficult when Trevor starts pushing, barreling his way into things that Mike just wants him to stay out of.
“You’re wasting your time,” Trevor says, pulling out random titles and shoving them back without any grace. “No one even reads these anymore, dude. Haven’t you heard of Kindles? Or Nooks? Jenny takes that fucking thing everywhere.”
“Not everyone like eReaders,” Mike says pointedly, but he doesn’t say anything when Trevor pulls out a few Agatha Christies and snorts derisively. His eyes narrow slightly when he notices a few pages get bent, but he still keeps his mouth shut.
“You can’t be MySpace when everyone’s on Facebook,” Trevor tells him boorishly. “Actually, no, you’re not even MySpace, you’re Friendster.” Trevor walks over to the register and leans over the counter, elbows propped up on Mike’s notebook. “Seriously, bro,” he says. “It’s not that I want you to be Facebook, because you could totally be Facebook if you wanted, but you want to be even better than Facebook, you know? You should be like--like Google. There’s a motherfucker for you.”
Mike sighs, but it’s more a breath of a laugh. “I don’t want to be Google,” he says. “I don’t even want to be Friendster. I just want to be a bookstore that sells books.”
Trevor snorts. “Mike,” he says. “Dude, this isn’t a bookstore, okay?” He holds up the 1920 edition of Sons and Lovers Mike currently has on display. “You’re trying to run a museum.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Mike frowns. “Museums are cool. They have culture and histories and, and--” He racks his brain for something that might actually be used to convince Trevor. “--Dinosaur bones?” he finishes, grimacing.
Trevor is unsurprisingly unimpressed. “No,” says Trevor. “You know what they have? They have millionaires making donations and--” his eyes narrow, and he makes air quotes dripping with condescension “--contributions. Basically, those guys have sugar daddies. Plural, by the way, on the daddies. Where are yours?”
“Yeah, okay, you know what?” Mike says, coming around the counter and shoving Trevor away. “It was nice of you to come by, but I really need to get some work done. We’ll talk later, yeah? Cool.”
Trevor only smirks at him, and Mike has to fight down the most overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Trevor says as he walks backwards towards to the door. “Get to work. I don’t keep that ass of yours around here just for you to sit on it.”
Mike flips him off.
“So where is that first edition Austen of yours?”
Mike whirls around. “Holy shit,” he sputters, stumbling backwards and nearly knocking over a shelf. “Jesus Christ, where did you come from?”
Harvey is standing behind him, supremely unruffled in a crisp suit, most likely having just left the office for the day.
“Jesus Christ,” Mike says.
Harvey merely raises an eyebrow. “Austen,” he repeats.
“Fuck,” Mike says, running a hand through his hair, willing his heart to calm down. He fumbles with the side of the shelf, patting it awkwardly as if to reassure himself that it was still standing. "Sorry, I mean I--shit--I mean, sorry, sorry, I don't have it."
Harvey's stare doesn't waver. “I already sold it,” Mike adds.
At that, Harvey presses his lips together in a thin line. “Hm,” says Harvey, somehow managing to twist the single-syllable non-word into a sneer. “That’s disappointing.”
Harvey leaves, and Mike continues to stand there at a loss, wondering why the hell he feels like a complete failure over a book Harvey had never even said he wanted. He gives himself a little shake, smacks himself on the cheek a few times, says, “What the fuck,” to the empty store, and goes to make a phone call to the historian that came in last week to see if she would have any interest in any of the twenty or so pre-18th-century Bibles he’s still got downstairs.
He stubs his toe against the edge of the register, because it's just turning into one of those days. "Fuck my life," he says bitterly through gritted teeth. "I'm just trying to sell some goddamn books!"
*
Mike’s starting to think the problem with his bookshop is Harvey. He only ever gets this frustrated when Harvey is in the shop, and Harvey has this nasty habit of stopping in early, often before lunch, which makes Mike frustrated for all hours after 1 pm until closing. It is not great for business, that much Mike is sure.
“You,” he says accusingly, when Harvey tries to buy a secondhand gardening book. “You.”
Harvey squints at him. “I’m sure you have something here on getting over stutters,” he says.
“You’re what will get me over my stutters,” Mike glowers, and Harvey grins.
*
“Mike!”
“What!” Mike is perched precariously atop a mixed stack of oversized atlases and encyclopedias. Whatever Harvey wants, Mike isn’t too keen on losing a tooth over it.
”Mike!”
”What!”
Harvey is standing right next to him now. Mike can feel him breathing. Mike, determinedly, does not look down.
“What,” he grits out, as he peers over the top of the high shelf, checking for any stray dust particles.
“Is this supposed to be a show?”
Mike wishes he had the balls to kick out. Instead, he carefully descends, breathing out a sigh of relief when his feet touch solid, level ground.
“Enjoy it while you can,” he says. “It’s not going to be free forever.”
Harvey smirks.
“Were you looking for something?” Mike asks.
Harvey shakes his head. “Just looking.”
The bell over the shop door rings out cheerily, and Mike hurries forward to help his new customer. The woman is dressed neatly, and Mike isn’t sure whether he should be charmed or intimidated.
“Hi,” he says. “How can I help you?”
She looks him over, sizing him up, and Mike feels like he should bow or something.
“You find books for people,” she says. “You should find a book for me.”
“Er,” says Mike. Redheads have always made him nervous, but this woman does it especially well. “I can do that. What were you looking for?”
She stares at him. “Don’t you know?”
“Er,” says Mike. “Well usually--”
“I want something with a strong female lead,” she says.
Mike nods. “How about Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice? or Emma? I’ve got copies just here.”
He leads her towards the next shelf over and retrieves the books, but she’s already thumbing through a copy of Twilight. “Oh,” he says. “You might not like that as much.”
“Why?” she asks. “Because I’m a working woman in the 21st century, so I must hate trashy romances?”
Mike blinks. “Um,” he says intelligently. “No, no, I wasn’t--I just thought that you’d enjoy these better since they both have heroines who don’t take shit from anyone.”
“Oh,” says the redhead, and she smiles at him beatifically. “In that case, I’ll take it.”
Harvey’s eyebrows are in their trademark spot, nearly in danger of disappearing into his hairline. He looks impressed.
“Oh my God,” says Mike, as if it’s a revelation (which it is). “This--she--Austen turns you on.” He manages to sound both disgusted and utterly fascinated.
The redhead frowns at them both. “That’s your wingman?” she asks Harvey with a terribly concealed sneer that suddenly makes Mike wish the ground would just swallow him whole.
“He’s new,” Harvey says mildly. He turns to face Mike fully. “Down, boy,” he says.
“Fuck you,” Mike retorts pithily.
“I think you hurt his feelings,” says the girl, not at all sympathetic.
“You,” says Mike. “Never come back here.”
“You don’t mean that,” she says.
“Yes, I do,” he says.
She squints at him. “No, I don’t think so.”
He sighs. “No, that’s true. I hope you come back soon.”
She pats him on the arm. It is oddly mollifying.
“Can you do that again?” he asks.
She smiles, indulgent.
Harvey makes a noise of disapproval.
“Sorry,” Mike says, very forlornly. “I’m just not good at this wingman thing.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re probably just meant for better things. Like me.”
Mike smiles at her. “I hope so,” he says earnestly. “Hey, just wondering, but is there any chance you’d like a Bible?”
*
“I think you are the worst thing to ever happen to me,” Mike declares, weeks later.
Harvey cocks an eyebrow, because Harvey has moved on from raising both eyebrows to perfecting the arch in his right brow. “Really,” he says.
“I have more books coming in than I do customers,” says Mike. “That’s a problem.”
“Is it now,” says Harvey.
“Somebody asked for a refund the other day,” says Mike. “On one of the bargain bin books.”
“Well, they’re terrible,” says Harvey. “I don’t know why he bought it in the first place. He shouldn’t have gotten a refund based on that fact alone.”
“He wanted a refund on something that cost ten cents,” says Mike. “Who gets refunds for ten pennies?”
“Assholes,” suggests Harvey. “Also, I see you forgot to say that you have more customers coming in as well.”
“No, I didn’t,” Mike argues. “I’m getting there. Jesus, shut up for a second won’t you? I have more customers coming in.”
“That’s great,” Harvey says. “So the feng shui is working.”
“Not great!” yells Mike. “I don’t have time for them! I can’t care for them! My reputation will be ruined!”
“I doubt that,” Harvey says.
“You don’t understand,” Mike says stubbornly. “You think this is all fun and games, but it’s not. It’s hard work, and just because I’m not some hotshot lawyer doesn’t mean that I don’t know what I’m doing, so thank you, for being a total tool and making my shop into something that it’s not.”
Harvey snorts. “And what’s that? Successful?”
Mike glares at him. “Unique,” he snaps.
Harvey rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes,” he says tonelessly. “Selling used books, who would’ve ever thought of that? Someone get Ebay on the line--Oh, wait.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Mike snipes. “Oh, aren’t you cute.”
“Adorable,” says Harvey smugly.
“I don’t need your charity,” Mike says. “In case you can’t tell. The more you try to ‘help’ me, the more you are not helping.”
“I’m not giving you charity,” Harvey says, looking affronted. “And I am helping. Word-of-mouth is the best business campaign since Sex Sells.”
“Harvey, you brought lawyers! High-strung lawyers! Lawyers who make threats! Do you know how seriously deranged your friends are? Because I’ve never seen so many subpoenas before in my life--I’ve never seen a subpoena before!”
“Oh,” says Harvey. “No, those weren’t friends. Those are the lawyers I beat in court.”
Mike makes a strangling motion, but Harvey doesn’t seem to comprehend.
“I don’t need your help, Harvey. I just really need you to stop.”
“No,” says Harvey. “You really don’t.”
Mike’s face is pinched. He knows it is. He is making it as pinched as it will get.
“Harvey,” he says. “I am not above begging.”
Harvey smirks. “Oh, I know. I’m counting on it.”
Mike ignores him. “Make the lawyers stop coming,” he says. “Stop ordering me books in Elvish. I cannot deal with another fucking geek-boy raid. Just stop ordering me books, period, okay? I have nowhere to put them, and no one to sell them to, because I am sure as hell not selling them to the people who are threatening me to sue me over shit that never even happened. You want to help, Harvey? Then help! Stop fucking me over, and don’t even try to say that you didn’t mean for any of this to happen, because I know you Harvey--oh, don’t even try it, I do know you, okay, as much as I don’t want to admit it--you are doing this because you think it’s fun, because you think it’s funny. You haven’t exactly been subtle, Harvey.”
As he rants, Mike sees Harvey smirk become wider and wider until it resembles something less of a smirk and more of a full-blown grin. Somewhere along the line, Mike stops and looks away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Oh,” he says stupidly. “So that was--You were--And then I--”
“And then you--” Harvey begins, undoubtedly ready to mock him for all that he’s worth, so Mike kisses him and effectively shuts him up.
*
“You are one of the most ridiculous people I have ever met,” Harvey tells him later, after coffee, after dinner, after shirts-off-under-the-covers. “And I have met some ridiculous people.”
“Whatever,” says Mike happily, because Harvey’s arguments are invalid. “I’m one of a kind.”
rating: pg13
word count: 4010
notes: for this prompt on suitsmeme . look! i am capable of something that isn't a nc17 rating! also, I think I managed to crack-ify this (at least, everything after part 2) a bit. welp, I didn't mean for that happen. *g* OP, I do apologize for the spastic writing /o\ I promise I am usually much better about sticking to one style!
Somewhere, there is a city, and in the city, there is a shop. The shop is a small shop, suited to fit the owner--a young and ambitious boy who sees nothing but potential in the space.
Soon, the spaces fill with neatly carved shelves that are then filled with all the books the boy can find. They are small books, big books, history books, and textbooks. They are children’s stories and fantasy novels and biographies. They are first editions and reprints, self-helps and test preps. He fills the shelves until there are no more shelves to fill, and so he goes to fill the space upstairs.
He fills the second floor with books on travelling, on writing, on reading, on being. He keeps Nietzsche and Kerouac and Saint-Exupery. He finds books on animals, on bacteria, on game theory and Schrodinger’s cat. He buys old books on typography, photography, and lithography. He buys whatever he can with the money he has--buys new books, used books, old books, and lost books.
He brings out his own books, books that libraries have withdrawn, books that have had lives of their own. He pours his love into his books, loves them just as they are, be they leather-bound or paperback, dog-eared or newly printed.
He finds a collection of Bibles on the street one day, and he clears out the basement for them. He brings back a stack of encyclopedias the next day, then a series of Oxford dictionaries the day after. He touches the weathered spines with a reverence and vows to find a home for them, however long it may take.
He puts out ads in the paper (GRAND OPENING. 22-07-11). He makes flyers and business cards and banners. He asks his cousin to install a signpost, and soon, White Blank Page is ready for business.
Mike takes a deep breath as he locks the door and steps back to admire his new shop. This, he decides, is not a bookshop for just anyone; this is a bookshop for him and those like him, those who read with a quiet wonder, who are always surprised by what they don’t know and what they can learn. This is a place for the people, for the children, and most importantly, for those who are always looking for a new adventure.
*
The day starts off slow with only a handful of purchases before noon. It’s a good start, though, because the customers stay to chat, and Mike learns that Annie from Greene Street has two children who adore Peggy Parish, Ned by 6th & Bell owns the coffeehouse down the block, and Mercelle from 8,000 miles over has a weakness for first edition Updikes.
It makes him comfortable, to know that his patrons feel warm and relaxed in his shop, that they trust him implicitly.
“Let me know what you think of this,” he tells Sam from Lorenst, as he wraps a signed copy of A Swiftly Tilting Planet. “I’ll find something else for you.”
Sam ducks his head, mumbles a quiet, “Thanks.”
Mike waves to him as he exits and settles in for a quick lunch break, pulling out a wrapped sandwich from underneath the register. He thinks about the day so far--he hopes business will pick up, but he’s happy with the turnout. He takes a few bites of his sandwich before hopping off the stool and bending down to retrieve a leather-bound journal that he’d intended to sell, but had fallen too far in love to part with it now.
He opens it to the first page, smiling as he runs his fingers down the soft edge of the cover. He uncaps a pen with his teeth, and smoothing down the paper, writes down the names of each of his customers and what they bought. He leaves space at the end of each line and writes “Recs” at the top of the empty column.
He pauses, trying to recall exactly what books he has in stock, what he’s ordered, and what he’s planning to order. He has some Dr. Seuss sets that he thinks he’ll show the couple who bought Are You My Mother?; he has a collection of criticisms on Kant that he could show Critique of Practical Reason the next time she comes by.
He’s in the middle of trying to find something for the Ramona and Her Father purchase when a sharp knock on the counter makes him look up.
“Sorry,” he says, shutting his notebook hastily and crumpling up his sandwich wrapper. He wipes his mouth quickly on the back of his hand, ignoring the way the man’s eyebrows rise. “What can I help you with?”
The man stares at him, and Mike stares right back. He’s tall only in the sense that they aren’t the same height, and his hair is slicked carefully into place. It makes him look older than he could be and the expensive cut of the suit suggests that the style is deliberate. “You sell rare books,” the man says finally, mouth twisting into a smirk.
“I do,” Mike acquiesces.
“Hm,” says the man. He reaches for one of the books displayed on the side table and flips through it, frowning. He sets it back down and says, “I want the first edition of this.”
Mike looks over. It’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. “Sure,” he says. “I can do that. Can I get your name and phone number? I’ll call you when I have it.”
The man snorts, faintly derisive. “No, I’ll just come back for it.”
Mike expects him to leave, but he doesn’t. In fact, the man spends almost twenty minutes looking through the shelves before selecting used copies of Peter Rabbit, The Last of the Mohicans, and The Hobbit.
Mike rings him up without a word.
*
Mike spends $90 on Amazon that night. He deliberates for nearly an hour before logging into his Buyer’s account. He can sell it at 20% markup, he decides, regardless of whether the man decides to come back. Every buy is an investment, Mike figures, he can’t go wrong.
*
The man comes back. Mike, honestly, is surprised.
“Hi,” he says, for lack of anything better. “Your book hasn’t come in, yet.”
The man stands by the photography books, pulling out every cover and inspecting them closely. “I know,” he says without looking up. He shifts, and Mike can see him holding onto a plain brown package in his left hand.
For a moment, Mike panics and thinks, Shit, he’s going to bomb this place, before the man moves again, sliding Architecture in Singapore back into its place. He walks over and holds out the parcel. “I think you ordered this,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
Mike doesn’t take it. “You’re Specter,” he says instead.
“Yes,” the man says, smirking now. “Ninety, was it?”
“One-oh-eight,” Mike says, unamused.
“Wow,” Specter whistles. “I’m not going to pay you for surfing the internet, so you can take the $90 to break even, or you can take a loss.”
“Breaking even would be $102.68,” Mike replies, finally reaching out and taking the package. “That’s shipping and handling and sales tax.” Mike looks up at him with a tampered-down glare. “I take credit cards.”
Specter chuckles and reaches into his suit jacket to take out his wallet. He hands over a credit card--black, Mike refuses to be impressed--and Mike swipes it through the register vindictively.
“Would you like a bag, Specter?” he asks sweetly.
Specter laughs, taps the counter with the edge of his card and says, “Pleasure doing business with you. Please,” he adds, smirk never wavering. “Call me Harvey.”
*
Here are the things that Mike comes to find about one Harvey Specter, aged 34.
Firstly, he is a lawyer. He is a senior partner at a firm which Mike is sure is just a shorter way of saying “a good but very expensive lawyer who makes more in three hours than Mike would in a day. Maybe two days. Possibly a week.” Second, is that he has a lot of books. He has so many, in fact, that he’s put his entire collection up for sale. Amazon says that he owns not one, but two first edition Dickens, along with plenty of other well-kept classics that make Mike nearly seethe with envy. Finally (and most importantly), he’s made a game of pissing Mike off, and Mike always loses. Mike hates losing.
Mike doesn’t know why Harvey continues to come back, just that he does. Harvey has criticised everything from the typeface of his signs to the arrangement of the shop to the shade of white on the walls--Mike had no idea there even were different shades of white.
“Wow, fuck you,” Mike very nearly snaps when Harvey is using his condescending voice again, this time to comment on the feng shui of the second floor. “I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” he says instead, toneless and highly unamused.
Harvey snorts. “I don’t,” he says plainly. “But you clearly need all the luck you can get.”
Mike shrugs and pays close attention to the cuticles of his left hand. “I apologize profusely that the design of my shop has offended you so greatly,” he says. “I’ll be sure to pass on your concerns to the decorator I have on call. Maybe you could leave your business card, I’m sure I’ll need a lawyer so I can take her to court and milk her for all that she’s worth.”
He looks up, and Harvey is staring at him. He sighs. “You see, that was funny because I was using this thing called sarcasm that I thought you were familiar with--since clearly, I don’t even have a decorator to fire--and if you think I’m going to give you some kind of discount if you act all offended, you can leave.”
Harvey does leave, but not before Mike catches fighting back a grin.
“Also,” Mike calls as the door swings open. “I have a friend who has a first edition Austen--are you interested?”
The door swings shut, and Mike settles himself more comfortably on his stool, smirking to himself. He calls Greg.
“I want the Austen,” he says, when Greg answers. He pauses, and Greg waits expectantly. “As an early birthday gift. Plus, you owe me,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Ah, sorry, man,” Greg says (and he does, in a rare instance, sound sorry). “But I just sold it.”
“So unsell it,” Mike says blankly. “What the fuck, just say that there was a mistake and you don’t have anymore in stock.”
Greg snorts. “Fuck you,” he says without any heat. “I already shipped it, man. If I find another one, I’ll let you know, alright?”
“Whatever,” says Mike, frowning slightly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not that important.”
“Yeah, sorry, man,” says Greg.
“It’s fine,” Mike says and hangs up.
*
Trevor is a good friend. Mike’s known him for nearly as long as he’s known himself, but sometimes, as anyone would with their own lives, it’s hard for him to appreciate the fact. It’s always especially difficult when Trevor starts pushing, barreling his way into things that Mike just wants him to stay out of.
“You’re wasting your time,” Trevor says, pulling out random titles and shoving them back without any grace. “No one even reads these anymore, dude. Haven’t you heard of Kindles? Or Nooks? Jenny takes that fucking thing everywhere.”
“Not everyone like eReaders,” Mike says pointedly, but he doesn’t say anything when Trevor pulls out a few Agatha Christies and snorts derisively. His eyes narrow slightly when he notices a few pages get bent, but he still keeps his mouth shut.
“You can’t be MySpace when everyone’s on Facebook,” Trevor tells him boorishly. “Actually, no, you’re not even MySpace, you’re Friendster.” Trevor walks over to the register and leans over the counter, elbows propped up on Mike’s notebook. “Seriously, bro,” he says. “It’s not that I want you to be Facebook, because you could totally be Facebook if you wanted, but you want to be even better than Facebook, you know? You should be like--like Google. There’s a motherfucker for you.”
Mike sighs, but it’s more a breath of a laugh. “I don’t want to be Google,” he says. “I don’t even want to be Friendster. I just want to be a bookstore that sells books.”
Trevor snorts. “Mike,” he says. “Dude, this isn’t a bookstore, okay?” He holds up the 1920 edition of Sons and Lovers Mike currently has on display. “You’re trying to run a museum.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Mike frowns. “Museums are cool. They have culture and histories and, and--” He racks his brain for something that might actually be used to convince Trevor. “--Dinosaur bones?” he finishes, grimacing.
Trevor is unsurprisingly unimpressed. “No,” says Trevor. “You know what they have? They have millionaires making donations and--” his eyes narrow, and he makes air quotes dripping with condescension “--contributions. Basically, those guys have sugar daddies. Plural, by the way, on the daddies. Where are yours?”
“Yeah, okay, you know what?” Mike says, coming around the counter and shoving Trevor away. “It was nice of you to come by, but I really need to get some work done. We’ll talk later, yeah? Cool.”
Trevor only smirks at him, and Mike has to fight down the most overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Trevor says as he walks backwards towards to the door. “Get to work. I don’t keep that ass of yours around here just for you to sit on it.”
Mike flips him off.
“So where is that first edition Austen of yours?”
Mike whirls around. “Holy shit,” he sputters, stumbling backwards and nearly knocking over a shelf. “Jesus Christ, where did you come from?”
Harvey is standing behind him, supremely unruffled in a crisp suit, most likely having just left the office for the day.
“Jesus Christ,” Mike says.
Harvey merely raises an eyebrow. “Austen,” he repeats.
“Fuck,” Mike says, running a hand through his hair, willing his heart to calm down. He fumbles with the side of the shelf, patting it awkwardly as if to reassure himself that it was still standing. "Sorry, I mean I--shit--I mean, sorry, sorry, I don't have it."
Harvey's stare doesn't waver. “I already sold it,” Mike adds.
At that, Harvey presses his lips together in a thin line. “Hm,” says Harvey, somehow managing to twist the single-syllable non-word into a sneer. “That’s disappointing.”
Harvey leaves, and Mike continues to stand there at a loss, wondering why the hell he feels like a complete failure over a book Harvey had never even said he wanted. He gives himself a little shake, smacks himself on the cheek a few times, says, “What the fuck,” to the empty store, and goes to make a phone call to the historian that came in last week to see if she would have any interest in any of the twenty or so pre-18th-century Bibles he’s still got downstairs.
He stubs his toe against the edge of the register, because it's just turning into one of those days. "Fuck my life," he says bitterly through gritted teeth. "I'm just trying to sell some goddamn books!"
*
Mike’s starting to think the problem with his bookshop is Harvey. He only ever gets this frustrated when Harvey is in the shop, and Harvey has this nasty habit of stopping in early, often before lunch, which makes Mike frustrated for all hours after 1 pm until closing. It is not great for business, that much Mike is sure.
“You,” he says accusingly, when Harvey tries to buy a secondhand gardening book. “You.”
Harvey squints at him. “I’m sure you have something here on getting over stutters,” he says.
“You’re what will get me over my stutters,” Mike glowers, and Harvey grins.
*
“Mike!”
“What!” Mike is perched precariously atop a mixed stack of oversized atlases and encyclopedias. Whatever Harvey wants, Mike isn’t too keen on losing a tooth over it.
”Mike!”
”What!”
Harvey is standing right next to him now. Mike can feel him breathing. Mike, determinedly, does not look down.
“What,” he grits out, as he peers over the top of the high shelf, checking for any stray dust particles.
“Is this supposed to be a show?”
Mike wishes he had the balls to kick out. Instead, he carefully descends, breathing out a sigh of relief when his feet touch solid, level ground.
“Enjoy it while you can,” he says. “It’s not going to be free forever.”
Harvey smirks.
“Were you looking for something?” Mike asks.
Harvey shakes his head. “Just looking.”
The bell over the shop door rings out cheerily, and Mike hurries forward to help his new customer. The woman is dressed neatly, and Mike isn’t sure whether he should be charmed or intimidated.
“Hi,” he says. “How can I help you?”
She looks him over, sizing him up, and Mike feels like he should bow or something.
“You find books for people,” she says. “You should find a book for me.”
“Er,” says Mike. Redheads have always made him nervous, but this woman does it especially well. “I can do that. What were you looking for?”
She stares at him. “Don’t you know?”
“Er,” says Mike. “Well usually--”
“I want something with a strong female lead,” she says.
Mike nods. “How about Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice? or Emma? I’ve got copies just here.”
He leads her towards the next shelf over and retrieves the books, but she’s already thumbing through a copy of Twilight. “Oh,” he says. “You might not like that as much.”
“Why?” she asks. “Because I’m a working woman in the 21st century, so I must hate trashy romances?”
Mike blinks. “Um,” he says intelligently. “No, no, I wasn’t--I just thought that you’d enjoy these better since they both have heroines who don’t take shit from anyone.”
“Oh,” says the redhead, and she smiles at him beatifically. “In that case, I’ll take it.”
Harvey’s eyebrows are in their trademark spot, nearly in danger of disappearing into his hairline. He looks impressed.
“Oh my God,” says Mike, as if it’s a revelation (which it is). “This--she--Austen turns you on.” He manages to sound both disgusted and utterly fascinated.
The redhead frowns at them both. “That’s your wingman?” she asks Harvey with a terribly concealed sneer that suddenly makes Mike wish the ground would just swallow him whole.
“He’s new,” Harvey says mildly. He turns to face Mike fully. “Down, boy,” he says.
“Fuck you,” Mike retorts pithily.
“I think you hurt his feelings,” says the girl, not at all sympathetic.
“You,” says Mike. “Never come back here.”
“You don’t mean that,” she says.
“Yes, I do,” he says.
She squints at him. “No, I don’t think so.”
He sighs. “No, that’s true. I hope you come back soon.”
She pats him on the arm. It is oddly mollifying.
“Can you do that again?” he asks.
She smiles, indulgent.
Harvey makes a noise of disapproval.
“Sorry,” Mike says, very forlornly. “I’m just not good at this wingman thing.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re probably just meant for better things. Like me.”
Mike smiles at her. “I hope so,” he says earnestly. “Hey, just wondering, but is there any chance you’d like a Bible?”
*
“I think you are the worst thing to ever happen to me,” Mike declares, weeks later.
Harvey cocks an eyebrow, because Harvey has moved on from raising both eyebrows to perfecting the arch in his right brow. “Really,” he says.
“I have more books coming in than I do customers,” says Mike. “That’s a problem.”
“Is it now,” says Harvey.
“Somebody asked for a refund the other day,” says Mike. “On one of the bargain bin books.”
“Well, they’re terrible,” says Harvey. “I don’t know why he bought it in the first place. He shouldn’t have gotten a refund based on that fact alone.”
“He wanted a refund on something that cost ten cents,” says Mike. “Who gets refunds for ten pennies?”
“Assholes,” suggests Harvey. “Also, I see you forgot to say that you have more customers coming in as well.”
“No, I didn’t,” Mike argues. “I’m getting there. Jesus, shut up for a second won’t you? I have more customers coming in.”
“That’s great,” Harvey says. “So the feng shui is working.”
“Not great!” yells Mike. “I don’t have time for them! I can’t care for them! My reputation will be ruined!”
“I doubt that,” Harvey says.
“You don’t understand,” Mike says stubbornly. “You think this is all fun and games, but it’s not. It’s hard work, and just because I’m not some hotshot lawyer doesn’t mean that I don’t know what I’m doing, so thank you, for being a total tool and making my shop into something that it’s not.”
Harvey snorts. “And what’s that? Successful?”
Mike glares at him. “Unique,” he snaps.
Harvey rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes,” he says tonelessly. “Selling used books, who would’ve ever thought of that? Someone get Ebay on the line--Oh, wait.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Mike snipes. “Oh, aren’t you cute.”
“Adorable,” says Harvey smugly.
“I don’t need your charity,” Mike says. “In case you can’t tell. The more you try to ‘help’ me, the more you are not helping.”
“I’m not giving you charity,” Harvey says, looking affronted. “And I am helping. Word-of-mouth is the best business campaign since Sex Sells.”
“Harvey, you brought lawyers! High-strung lawyers! Lawyers who make threats! Do you know how seriously deranged your friends are? Because I’ve never seen so many subpoenas before in my life--I’ve never seen a subpoena before!”
“Oh,” says Harvey. “No, those weren’t friends. Those are the lawyers I beat in court.”
Mike makes a strangling motion, but Harvey doesn’t seem to comprehend.
“I don’t need your help, Harvey. I just really need you to stop.”
“No,” says Harvey. “You really don’t.”
Mike’s face is pinched. He knows it is. He is making it as pinched as it will get.
“Harvey,” he says. “I am not above begging.”
Harvey smirks. “Oh, I know. I’m counting on it.”
Mike ignores him. “Make the lawyers stop coming,” he says. “Stop ordering me books in Elvish. I cannot deal with another fucking geek-boy raid. Just stop ordering me books, period, okay? I have nowhere to put them, and no one to sell them to, because I am sure as hell not selling them to the people who are threatening me to sue me over shit that never even happened. You want to help, Harvey? Then help! Stop fucking me over, and don’t even try to say that you didn’t mean for any of this to happen, because I know you Harvey--oh, don’t even try it, I do know you, okay, as much as I don’t want to admit it--you are doing this because you think it’s fun, because you think it’s funny. You haven’t exactly been subtle, Harvey.”
As he rants, Mike sees Harvey smirk become wider and wider until it resembles something less of a smirk and more of a full-blown grin. Somewhere along the line, Mike stops and looks away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Oh,” he says stupidly. “So that was--You were--And then I--”
“And then you--” Harvey begins, undoubtedly ready to mock him for all that he’s worth, so Mike kisses him and effectively shuts him up.
*
“You are one of the most ridiculous people I have ever met,” Harvey tells him later, after coffee, after dinner, after shirts-off-under-the-covers. “And I have met some ridiculous people.”
“Whatever,” says Mike happily, because Harvey’s arguments are invalid. “I’m one of a kind.”